


The way to a man's heart is through his stomach (and his motherland's dishes)

by shanimalew



Series: Fictober 2020 [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Humor, Mentions of Sex, Multi, Short & Sweet, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:33:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26772226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shanimalew/pseuds/shanimalew
Summary: It is Illya's birthday and weirdly enough, they are on leave. So Gaby and Napoleon decide to make the day special by cooking together a typical Russian dish. Shenanigans ensured.[Fictober 2020, Day 2]
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo/Gaby Teller
Series: Fictober 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947211
Comments: 8
Kudos: 54





	The way to a man's heart is through his stomach (and his motherland's dishes)

**_Prompt 2 Domestic_ **

Vacations were rare in their job, especially if they happened on a birthday. 

Illya doesn't remember the last time he celebrated his. His mother loved making the day special by cooking him his favourite dish, pelmeni. No matter how much money they had at the moment, he would always find them on his dinner table, and hot chocolate for breakfast.

But when he was recruited in the KGB there wasn't time for celebrations, their supervisors needed them sharp and always ready to fight. The only time he was allowed to celebrate was the night after a good mission, but after a while he got tired of mindlessly drinking, so he started spending those nights reading or walking around Moscow; the city seemed to thrive at night and Illya loved exploring it.

But still, celebrating his birthday was never in his plans, instead preferring to drown in work to forget about what he had lost and what he would never have again.

That's why this morning he got up as usual, at 5 o'clock, to go on his morning run, unaware of what day it was. It’s important for him to keep a routine when he is on leave, otherwise he’d get antsy and ask for any kind of job, which are always the shittiest ones and he always finds himself regretting it. So he goes for a run, then exercises in the private gym they have in their building complex. After his exercise routine he returns home, showers and then tries to wake up his lovers. Emphasis on trying. 

They are his polar opposite, especially Gaby, using the majority of their leave to catch up on sleep. Once he decided not to wake them and he found himself spending the entire morning reading alone, Napoleon waking up at eight but falling asleep with his head on Illya’s shoulder an hour later, blaming it on their ‘extensive physical activity the night before’. Gaby, instead, woke up at noon but only because her stomach was rumbling too loudly, waking her. 

But despite the enormous effort it takes to wake them, he loves this new morning routine. He loves that no matter how much time he needs alone in the morning, he always has someone to return to. It’s a nice change, one he never thought he’d live long enough to have.

However, this morning his routine is thrown off when, upon entering their house, he hears a loud bang in the kitchen, followed by Gaby’s cursing. He immediately takes out the knife he keeps on himself at all times and rushes in the kitchen.

However, what he finds are Gaby and Napoleon fighting by the shove, a broken plate on the floor.

"What are you doing up so early?" He asks, slowly lowering his knife. They abruptly stop when they hear him, turning around to look at him.

"How was your run?" Gaby asks, faking nonchalance.

“But most importantly, where do you keep that knife?” Napoleon says, ogling Illya’s incredibly short shorts and tight t-shirt.

“Not your concern, Cowboy” he replies, throwing him a quick wink, “What is happening here?”

“We-” Gaby starts.

“I-”

Gaby huffs, then continues, “Napoleon was trying to make crepes, but he forgot to tell me he put the plate near the stove so when I took it, it burned and I dropped it”

“Thought thieves were inside, you never up this early”

“Oh, you know, surprises are important in a relationship. Keeps things interesting” Napoleon says smirking, before bringing his attention back to the stove.

“Okay” Illya says suspicious, “Now I go shower, please don’t break anything else”

“We can’t make any promises” Gaby shouts after him, laughing to herself when she hears Illay’s loud sigh.

When he returns from his shower he finds them whispering to themselves at the table. As he gets closer he sees a crepe with a small candle on. 

“What is this?” he asks, pointing at the candle on his plate.

"I believe we westerns call it a candle" Napoleon says, promptly followed by an "Ow" as he receives Gaby's jab.

Illya sends him a glare.

"Liebling, did you forget what day it is?" Gaby asks, an amused smile on.

"Oh" he lets out, almost as a whisper, "I forgot it was today. Thank you for nice gesture"

He sits down, pulls the plate towards him and slowly blows the flame.

The scene is so absurd in Napoleon’s eyes that he can’t help looking at Illya with a dumb smile on, as if he’s looking at one of those rare nature occurrences. Like when a squirrel in St. James’ park decides to eat from your hand without biting it.

He wishes he has a camera on him, to document the moment.

“If you think this is the only thing we have in store for your birthday you are mistaken” Gaby says, nudging Napoleon on his side, awakening him from his stupor.

“Yeah, you’re in for a treat, my comrade. We are cooking together” Napoleon says, unable to contain his excitement.

“I am no chef, I cannot cook” Illya says, taking a bite of his crepe. He looks down at it as if it has killed his entire family, “Good, but Bliny better”.

“They are literally the Russian version of a crepe, Illya” Gaby retorts, as Napoleon laughs wildly.

“Russians do everything better” Illya replies, smiling to himself. 

Gaby and Napoleon feel their hearts grow three sizes. Seeing Illya laugh it’s such a rare occurrence that they still have to get used to it, their hearts jumping out every time it happens, which is becoming more and more frequent.

“Well, then you are going to love our cooking session” Gaby continues, propping her elbows against the table, hands holding her smug face, “We are making Pelmeni”.

They both see the moment the word settles in Illya. His eyes widening as he slowly puts down his fork.

“Pelmeni?” he whispers, Napoleon and Gaby nod. For a brief moment the man in front of them doesn’t look like Illya, and they swear they can see his eyes water slightly. He looks like a mixture between an excited and scared kid, it breaks their hearts. But just as it appeared, his vulnerable expression disappears, leaving them thinking it was all just a product of their imagination.

“What do you know about cooking pelmeni?” he asks, his hard expression back on.

“Well, they’re just Russian dumplings, and I had friends in Italy and Japan explain to me how to cook their versions. The process is the same, more or less” Napoleon explains, delighted at how Illya’s brows furrow when he compares Italian and Japanese dumplings to the Russian ones.

“It’ll be fun, I promise” Gaby says, taking Illya’s hand. “Now let’s enjoy our breakfast. I think we talked too much for this early hour”

“It is 8 o’clock” Illya retorts.

“Dawn. It is dawn. So crepes, coffee and contemplation before starting to cook, okay boys?”

Napoleon and Illya nod, mirror smiles on their faces.

It’s an hour later that they decide to get up from the table, just to fall back onto their bed.

“Happy birthday, liebling” Gaby lets out, breathless. 

“Happy birthday indeed” replies Napoleon, a dumb smile on, as his hand draws mindless patterns on Gaby’s stomach, “I expect the same treatment for my birthday”

“Do not worry, Cowboy. If you are good boy, you will get it”

“That works for Christmas, not birthdays”

“Can work for birthday too” Illya says, propping himself on one arm. His free hand moves a stray of hair away from Napoleon’s face, fingers lingering on his face. Then he lowers himself, mouth resting near his ear “Don’t you want to be good boy for me?” he whispers, feeling Napoleon shudder under him. He smirks, then bites his earlobe.

“I…” Napoleon breaths out, but before he can continue Gaby interrupts them.

“Please boys, we don’t have time to unpack Napoleon’s new kink. If we want to eat pelmeni for lunch we need to start preparing them now” she says, getting up to search for their clothes. She throws Napoleon and Illya’s clothes on them, before getting dressed.

“Chop chop” she says, slapping Illya’s ass as she exits the room.

Napoleon groans but complies nonetheless, while Illya laughs at him. 

“Knead better, Cowboy. Stronger grip or hours in gym serve nothing?”

“I am kneading in the right way, just let me work”

“You are not doing it right” Illya continues, his right hand stirring the pan.

“Are you in charge of the dough? No. You are in charge of the filling, so focus on that” Napoleon says, his forehead sweating a little with effort.

“And what am I in charge of? Looking at your nice asses work while I drink wine?” Gaby asks, ogling the two men working in front of her as she sits on the kitchen island. “Not that I’m complaining”

“You will help assemble the pelmeni. Enjoy this brief moment of peace before Stalin here starts bossing you around too”

“Making pelmeni is art, not my fault you are not an artist”

“Wow, have you become a poet overnight? I’m emotional”

“Less bickering and more cooking. I want to participate too” Gaby interjects.

“I think we ready” 

Napoleon nods, starting to roll out the dough. Gaby gets closer, looking excitedly from Illya’s pan to Napoleon’s dough.

“Smells amazing”

“Thank you, finally someone with positive feedback” Napoleon says, “Is it rolled enough?” he turns to Illya, smiling when the man nods.

“Okay, to do this we need to cut the dough into circles, put a bit of the filling at the centre, wet the edges and then close, doing this movement” He explains, as he closes the piece of dough in half, then folds it. “If it is too difficult you can just close it using a fork”

“We can do it, right Illya?” Gaby says, looking up at Illya and winking. Illya just nods at her with a determined expression.

But apparently watching Napoleon is easier than replicating his movements, so Illya and Gaby find themselves butchering the first ten pelmeni, each ugly attempt followed by a different swear word in Russian or German. 

“My loves, you need to calm down. Stress doesn’t help with manual jobs” Napoleon says, but his amusement is palpable and Gaby wants to throw the pan with the filling at his handsome face.

“You do not help. Shut up” Illya replies, bending over the counter as he attentively tries to close a pelmeni, but it doesn’t look like Napoleon’s. He swears under his breath.

“Weren’t you the expert, Mr. ‘making pelmeni is art’?” Napoleon retorts, hunching over Illya, a hand resting on the man’s lower back.

“I never made them, always watched” he says, as he takes another circle and repeats the same motions. “My mother made them for my birthday”

The last comment was barely a whisper, but both Napoleon and Gaby heard it. Gaby stopped her movements and looked at Napoleon, who was already looking at her with uncertainty. 

They never know how to handle Illya’s confessions, especially if they concern his past. But he seemed more preoccupied with the task ahead, so they relaxed slightly. 

Napoleon puts his hands on Illya’s, showing him how to properly close the pelmeni.

“You good at this” Illya murmurs, raising his head to look at Napoleon.

“Well I’ll be damned, did you just compliment me?”

“Do not get used”

“Could I also get a hand, professor?” Gaby asks, smirking.

“Of course my dear student” Napoleon promptly replies, going over to Gaby and plastering himself on her back, just as he did with Illya.

“You know, I could get used to being called a professor. Maybe when I retire I can teach”

“What can you teach? How to steal works of art and pretend to be James Bond?” Gaby says as she closes a pelmeni. She studies it, before gloating. “Perfect” she murmurs, starting with another piece of dough.

“You hurt me, sweetheart. But your pelmeni are getting better so I won’t take much offence. By the way, I think we’re almost done so I’ll put on some water and prepare the condiment”

After finishing the last pelmeni, it doesn’t take long for them to cook.

“They smell amazing” Gaby says, bringing the plates to their dinner table. 

“Can’t wait to eat them, teaching you tired me. I’m starving” Napoleon says as they all sit down.

Illya is weirdly quiet, looking at the plate in front of him wistfully. He takes a bite, looks at his plate, then eats another.

“Well, birthday boy? Satisfied?”

“They are nice. Not as good as true Russian pelmeni, but nice”

“This is as much as you will get from him, but I think they are great. We are great cooks, I’m proud of us” Gaby replies, eating voraciously her portion.

“Thank you for making me relive such happy memory. I never cared for birthdays but I am happy I have spent this one with you” Illya continues.

“This and so much more for you, my love” Gaby murmurs, taking both Illya and Napoleon’s hands.

“What do you want to do after?” Napoleon asks.

“Before you answer know we have dessert, which is, spoiler, a nice cake with cute candles on top and I’m quite excited to eat it. So, what do you want to do after eating your cake?”

“I...do not know. I had no intention of celebrating, I am content with spending the rest of the day as we usually do” Illya replies, as he continues eating.

It’s a strange view, this Illya. He is slower in his movements, doesn’t rush to finish his dish, and smiles, nothing exaggerated but still, it is there. It is soft as if they are having a glimpse of a lost Illya, the man he could have been without KGB, the man he still is underneath the armour he was forced to wear.

They can’t stop looking at him, feeling the luckiest people of Earth having the privilege of seeing him like this.

As per Illya’s desire, after lunch they spend the day quietly. Illya plays chess with Napoleon while Gaby reads a book.

Illya doesn’t believe how domestic they have become, how he loves spending his time at home with them. Even in days where they don’t really interact with each other, just the mere presence of his lovers by his side is enough to make him feel at peace. At home.

He thinks of his life, before his father was sent to a Gulag, then to his days alone with his mother before KGB. The sense of belonging, of closeness.

Now it’s the same, but at the same time different. It’s like the feeling he got from his past was amplified. 

He never thought he’d find someone to love him, romantically. His job was too dangerous, never allowing him to get closer to anyone. To find not only a person but two, whom he loves with every fibre in his body and who love him back is unthinkable for him. But what he got was far more than love, because somehow, someway, Napoleon and Gaby accept him. Him, the Russian Peril, the perfect Soviet machine, a man with so many skeletons and issues. 

He never thought he’d live a day where love and acceptance could be possible in his life. Where domesticity was a thing he’d look for when on leave. Spending his days sitting on a sofa, Gaby drooling on his lap while Napoleon rested his head on his shoulder discussing everything and nothing with him as he played with his hair, before it was something he’d try not to dream about, to not give himself false hopes. 

But somehow he did something right, if this life fell onto him. And he’d do what it takes to cherish it and protect it.

**Author's Note:**

> I had so much fun writing this prompt, I hope you too had fun reading it! As always kudos and comments are super appreciated and I'll see you tomorrow! <3


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